Plunged into a Fiery Chaos
by MiseryHatred
Summary: Roy MacNeil, a Scottish ex-SAS and ex-SRR operative is picked to join the Task Force 141. Little does he know, he's in for the most intense experience of combat he'll ever face. Rated T for some swearing in the future.
1. Chapter 1: Welcome to the 141

**Disclaimer: I do not own Call of Duty, or anything from it. I am merely writing a story based on the events of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2.**

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** [Verified Identity]**

** [Nationality: Scottish]**

** [D.O.B: 01/21/87]**

** [Name: Roy MacNeil]**

** [Now logging in...]**

The yellow floor skidded across the solid white table. Two papers flew out, visible to the eyes of Roy, otherwise known as Jester.

"Six years with the British SAS, two with the SRR. I'm impressed, Mister Roy." Said Shepherd in a gruff voice.

"Only getting the job done, sir." Roy said, with a bit of a soldier-like tone.

"That's what I want, Mister Roy." He continued.

"Anything you say, General. Sign me up."

Shepherd nodded with approvement. He focused his attention to the large TV in front of the table. He picked up the remote and turned on the television. A clip of an airport was shown, near the security area. Five men exited from an elevator, armed with weapons. Seconds later, the men opened fire, showing no restraint or hesitation. As if they were _built to murder_.

Shepherd then closed the TV and turned his attention to Roy, whose mouth was gaping.

"Mister Roy, that was Vladimir Makarov. Russian Ultranationalist and a patriotic hater against the West." He said in a strong, gruff tone.

"Terrorist attack on that airport, Sir?"

"It sure was. We've been tracking Makarov ever since his crimes were more wide-spread. It's a matter of time before we can get to him."

"Are we taking him down?" Roy asked, curiously, with an edge of pain in his voice.

Shepherd fell silent. He then opened a drawer from his desk, and pulled out a combat knife. There was one quirk about it; the blade was a metallic black and there was an emblem of the 141 on the handle. He tossed the knife to Roy. He caught it as if it were radioactive metal, carefully handling as to not cut himself.

"This Task Force consists of some of the most elite handpicked warriors who ever existed on this planet. Welcome to the 141, Jester."

Roy gave a salute and put the knife away.

"Thank you sir, it's an honor sir." He said, proudly.

_It was only a matter of time before Roy went on his first mission with the 141. Only a matter of time before he was thrown into the worst danger he would ever experience. Only a matter of time before his easy-going life in the SAS and SRR would be plunged into an intense amount of combat and fighting._

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**This is Chapter 1, it was a bit of a sloppy/rough start, but I hope you'll enjoy it. Sorry for the short chapter, as it's just the prolouge and I don't exactly mean to make it so huge that first-time readers lose interest.**

**Happy reading! **

**Cheers,**

**MiseryHatred**


	2. Chapter 2: Bloodshed For Two

**Disclaimer: I do not own Call of Duty, any characters from the series. I am only writing a fanfic based on the events of Modern Warfare 2.  
**

**Chapter 2! I hope you enjoy this one, I'm introducing a few characters as well as some familiar ones that we all love.  
**

**Enjoy!  
**

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**[Verified Identity]  
**

**[Loading Program 3.32]  
**

**[LOGGING IN...]  
**

**[Name: Roy MacNeil]  
**

**[D.O.B: 01/21/87]  
**

**[Nationality: Scottish]  
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**[Affiliations: SAS, SRR, TF141]  
**

_The swirl of ravaging fire would be impossible to miss. Roy dived before his helicopter could entrap him in the explosion. Burned and ravaged bodies disfigured by the blaze lay dead on the sandy ground. Roy, barely conscious, pulled himself against a wall and stared angrily at the bodies that lay before his feet. He pulled out his radio and attempted to contact HQ._

"_Hotel Six, this is Raven 3-2, do you copy?" He said with a weak voice._

_No response. Static._

"_Hotel Six, this is Raven 3-2. Our copter's down…need emergency exfil…" _

_Hundreds of militia descended upon the crash wreckage, weapons ready to kill Roy. But he would not go down without a fight. He pulled out his M1911 and fired blankly into the air, wasting his rounds._

_Before he knew it, an AK-47 was pointed at his forehead._

_**Bang.**_

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Roy bolted straight up from his bed, gasping for air. His forehead beaded and glistened with sweat, his shirt soaked in the substance. He got up and headed for the showers.

"_Not those nightmares again…not again about Iraq…" _He muttered to himself.

He looked in the mirror before taking a shower. The same scars remained on his right cheek and lip. An 'X' that "marks the spot" to quote the person he hated most.

He turned the shower dial to to the left, putting it near the hottest water mark. The water came down like bullets, however not tearing his skin apart, but cleansing it of dirt, grime and sweat that has entrapped itself into his fair skin.

After showering, Roy decided he needed some time outside. He went over to the basketball court, which was empty. He grabbed a ball and started shooting hoops.

The silent footsteps of Sergeant Valerie "Raven" Wright approached Roy, as she giggled silently to herself. Her untied chocolate-brown hair fell all the way to her back. Her sea-blue eyes sparkled in the sun and her face was clear as ice. Except for a long scar that ran across her eye.

"You're an attractive Scottish man, with those scars." She said, teasingly.

Roy flinched at the mention of his scars. Flickers of his old torturer flashed in his mind. He came back to his senses.

"Everyone's got scars, one way or another," He said, calmly.

"Well, I agree."

"Your name, mi'lady?"

"No need for the 'mi'lady'. My name is Valerie. Yours?" She replied, with a smile.

"Roy MacNeil, ex-SAS," He said, formally.

She smiled at the mention of him being an SAS operative. She then turned on her heel and left the court. Roy put away his ball and went to the breakfast room.

The sight of the breakfast room was lively and joyful. Men gathered around, eating, joking and chatting. Just as if they were off-duty, or waiting for something to happen. Roy knew that feeling, always longing for action, not able to stand the boredom that surrounded him when he was not picked to take part in an operation.

A man with a balaclava waved to Roy, gesturing for him to sit at his table. Roy was mystified as to why this man wore a balaclava over his face, even if it was for combat.

"So, Roy. You're the new member, eh?" Asked the man.

"Yes, sir. Roy MacNeil, ex-SAS and ex-SRR. Recruited just yesterday, sir." He replied firmly.  
"No need for the formalities. I'm Simon. Call me Ghost." He grinned.

"Oh, okay, Ghost."

"Listen up, Roy. Word is that you're being picked for an operation in Brazil to capture a H.V.I who's suspected of supplying Makarov and his assault on Zakhaev International Airport."

"Do I have to talk to somebody?"

"Aye, mate. Go see Joh- I mean Soap at the barracks after breakfast." He nodded.

_"I'm ready for this," Thought Roy, stupidly._

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When Roy mustered the courage to speak to this 'Soap', he headed towards the barracks and opened the door. Inside, he found the smell of hot tea and biscuits. One had a mohawk and a few black stripes over his face.

Roy spoke up. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

The man glanced up at the latter in the doorway.

"A Scot, eh? Welcome to the 141!" He said with a huge grin, with a light Scottish accent.

"Yes, sir. You requested to see me, sir?"

"Aye. I'm Soap. I wanted to know if you were willing to take part in our new op in Brazil."

"Whatever it is sir, as long as I can get the job done." He said, remembering what he stated to General Shepherd.

"I like that. We're heading to Rio de Janeiro in Brazil. You heard of Makarov, aye?" He asked, with an edge of pain in his voice. The same edge of pain Roy felt.

"Aye, sir. I heard someone there was the supplier of his assault."

"Yeah, Alejandro Rojas, known as 'Alex the Red'. We traced his shells over to a compound he owned in Brazil. We're taking after him for any info on Makarov. As well as to clear the name of our fallen CIA operative, who worked alongside Makarov for his assault."

"CIA operative? Alongside him, eh? How'd he get killed?"

"Makarov knew of his identity. Waited until the end, left those Russian bodies at an American's feet. Shot him. You know what happened next?"

Roy shook his head, but he knew it would be something terrible, that this Makarov had caused.

"Russia officially declared war, to avenge the bloodshed in Moscow. Now a day ago, another Task Force operator and I retrieved a captured ACS module. We think the Russians decoded it before we could stop them."

Then it dawned on Roy. The United States of America was about to fight one of the most brutal fights ever. Over a failed CIA undercover mission. This bloodshed would not go unavenged. The Russians would spill American blood on their own land, just as the Americans did to them. This was no forgivable crime. Not with the credibility of this CIA operative dead. Nothing was forgivable now. It was all or nothing. But here, they were safe, away from harm. But with General Shepherd as the TF141's commander, they would be fighting too.

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**MH: Sorry for this long chapter. I just wanted a filler before I could continue throughout this story. I hope you enjoyed, and please review and give suggestions, ideas, or constructive criticism. It's always appreciated.**

**Cheers & Happy Reading,  
**

**MiseryHatred  
**


	3. Chapter 3: The Gun Begins to Growl

"_Only the dead have seen the end of war." _– George Santayana

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Rio de Janeiro. Population? Over six million. Finding Rojas was like searching for a man who doesn't exist.

"Trace the shell." Were Shepherd's words of the day.

The car heater was off and for a good reason. It was about the heat of a frying pan multiplied by four million. The combat gear didn't help Roy and the others so much either.

"A few blocks to go," said MacTavish over the radio.

The car turned violently and pulled up behind a suspicious looking truck. More cars turned and pulled up, loaded with Task Force 141 operators. Before they knew it, militia poured out of the truck and walked to the crumbling building that had paint that was as dull as their truck.

"They've stopped again. Hang tight, everybody," said MacTavish.

A man stepped out of the building with an atrocious and hungry looking pistol. He seemed to be having an argument with the militia.

As soon as it had started, it ended. The man with the pistol emptied his rounds into the militia. Before they knew it, he aimed his gun at Roy's car and fired.

Roy dived and kept his head under the glovebox. However, the driver, wasn't so lucky. A mess of gore and blood spattered the dashboard and all over Roy.

"Piece of shit," mumbled Roy as he struggled to open the door. MacTavish and the others were already out and pulled the door open, helping Roy out.

"He's getting away! Jester, let's move!" shouted Ghost.

"Non-lethal takedowns only, we can't risk a fatality!" responded MacTavish.

Car-alarms, explosions and screams were heard in the streets of Rio de Janeiro, while Roy and the team were in hot pursuit of Rojas' right hand man.

"He's going into the alley!" yelled Ghost and MacTavish in unison.

Roy sprinted with extreme speed and got behind his target. In an instant, he aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger, and down he went.

"He's down," said MacTavish, his voice exasperated.

The team entered a run-down garage and found a brand-new pair of electric cables. Ghost saw the slight smirk on the face of MacTavish and immediately got to work.

"Jester, we'll stay in contact. We'll rendezvous with you in a bit, so get moving through the slums!" said Ghost.

Roy and a team of operators jumped down into the slums and cocked their weapons.

"Let's find this bastard," muttered Roy under his breath.

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**A/N: Blarg. This chapter probably isn't my best work.**** Hopefully chapter 4 will bring some excitement, as this one just mainly follows the campaign mission, "Takedown".  
**

**Hope you enjoy, and sorry for not getting anything out any sooner. School's been pounding me, so I've been extremely busy.**

**The next chapter is probably going to be much longer. Constructive criticism, reviews and such are greatly appreciated. **

**Flames (heheh) will be laughed at, k.**


	4. Chapter 4: Do payphones still exist?

"_War doesn't determine who is right, war determines who is left."_ – Bertrand Russell

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[Roy's POV]

The searing heat was torture. The smell of the slums was rank. There were clotheslines, tires, dumpsters and feces all over, in every place you could imagine. The small houses were cracked and looked like they haven't seen a fresh coat of paint in a century. Standing upon them, were soldiers with, sun-glasses, crew-cuts and an extremely angry scowls. Worse, in their arms were AK-47s, loaded to fire.

Now I don't know Brazillian or Spanish, but I sure as hell know they sounded angry and they were yelling. My gut was literally telling me, "They're going to fire on you, Meat and Royce." And my gut was right. Militia from all over popped out of buildings, windows, onto roofs and took cover behind alleys. I ran through the alley, taking shots that are so half-assed that they'd never get me into the one-four-one. I hoped Meat and Royce were trailing behind me, because if they weren't, I'd be pretty pissed, running through this shitplace by myself.

"Meat's down!" shouted Royce over the comms.

"Stick tight, Royce!" I responded.

This was all bullshit. There was always a friend or two who died on a mission. We're all born to die, at some point. Some die earlier than others. Some die later. The fact that I'm always living pisses me off. If I had a penny for how many times I survived out of my squad, I'd probably be rich.

Just to prove my point, I heard a grunt and some shuffling. I looked back for an instant, only to see Royce fall to the ground. I ran over, pulling him to the best cover I could. His skin turned pale and his lips were moving, though his words were inaudible. I placed my ear to his chest and by the sound of it, he was having a bad breathing problem. I'm guessing he was shot in the lung.

"Jester..fi-fi.. find that.. bastard.." he muttered with extreme difficulty.

Anger welled up inside me and I nodded. I couldn't do anything to save him. I had to move forward, or I'd be lying in these slums myself. I picked up the tags from his limp body and removed the ammunition and grenades.

'Gonna need these later..' I thought to myself.

I ran through the alleys, trying my best to pop every single militia who trained on me. I suddenly heard barking and growling, plus more Brazillian. Seconds later, I was pummeled to the ground and I found an angry dog trying to bite my face off. I did the logical thing and snapped its neck, then shot the other one trying to attack me.

As I as reloading, the man who was supposedly the dog handler came with a gleaming combat knife, poised to attack. I dropped my gun and stepped back, feeling the wind of the blade as it cut into my cheek. Not too deep, but still a nasty cut. The man charged, his blade pointed upward at my neck. He was slow, so I picked him up and slammed him down into the ground, kicking his knife away. He delivered a swift kick to my jaw, and I think I bit my cheek the second he kicked me. Blood filled my mouth and I spit it in his face. He delivered a punch (and to my jaw, that bastard.) and I staggered. I grabbed his knife off the ground and impaled it in his chest.

I picked up my weapon and finished reloading, then I kept running. The comms suddenly perked up and someone with a Scottish accent spoke up.

"Jester, Ghost and I have found Rojas! Keep going the way you are and we'll meet up!"

"Roger that!" I shouted.

I ran through the alleys, and suprisingly there were no militia. It dawned on me that they probably diverted to chase MacTavish and Ghost, so I kept going. I heard gunshots getting louder the further I went, and shouts with Scottish and British accents.

I turned around a corner and I slammed face first into somebody and a mask and sunglasses were on my face. I saw Ghost and MacTavish and they helped me up. I handed the mask and sunglasses back to Ghost, and he looked pretty weird without them.

Putting that matter beside, Rojas was only a couple hunred meters away, and we chased him.

"He's going into that building!" shouted Ghost as he pointed to a building that was still being constructed.

MacTavish probably had enough of this goose chase (I did too.) and went into the building. Rojas wasn't a match for MacTavish, as he tackled Rojas off the building and onto a car, pointing his gun at him. I gave Rojas a good uppercut to his jaw, and he grunted in pain.

"Good work, we'll need to find a safe spot to interrogate him." said MacTavish.

I sat on the top of a destroyed car, placing my weapon down. I heard running and I saw more operators coming into the fray, who were probably busy with the militia. I saw Ghost walking towards me, his sleeves grimy and dirty.

"Soap's taking care of Rojas for now," he said bluntly.

"This was some bullshit.." I reply.

"What's wrong?"

"Meat and Royce, gone."

"They did their jobs in the field, and it's up to us to make sure their deaths weren't pointless." He said, his tone soft.

"I guess.." I mumble.

-1400hrs, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil-

"Line is busy, please try again later."

I hear the words and I perk up. "How are we getting out of here?"

"I know a friend who owes me a favor," said MacTavish.

"Who is he?" I ask.

"You'll get to know him soon."

"What, is he a fugitive or something?"

"Something like that."

"How are you going to contact him?" I ask with a pleading tone.

He paused for a minute to think, then he said, "Let's find a payphone. They still exist?"

"Yeah." I toss him some Brazillian coins from off the ground.

The last I see is him walking to the nearest payphone and dialing a number.

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**A/N: Prolly the first time I'm making it from Roy's POV, but whodahellcares.**

**Reviews, constructive criticism and others are generally welcome.**

**Flaming me will get you nowhere.**

**MH**


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